


Behind the curtain

by Shotgun_Cake



Series: Flavors of lust [5]
Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: (all consensual), Choking, Clothed Sex, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism but not really, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Married Couple, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Quiet Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Smut, more like a ''thrill of the danger'' kind of thing, once again: not really, we been knew Martín is one loud needy bitch thank you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:21:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27775276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shotgun_Cake/pseuds/Shotgun_Cake
Summary: It feels like they’re alone.They aren’t, not really. Andrés can still hear footsteps in the distance.There’s an experience to be had here. Something to try.~~~OR: Andrés and Martín, in a fitting room, doing what married people do...
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa & Palermo | Martín Berrote, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Series: Flavors of lust [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1884799
Comments: 27
Kudos: 81





	Behind the curtain

**Author's Note:**

> 'Sup? ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

Andrés smiles at the sales assistant and maintains eye contact just a little too long. 

As expected she looks away, uncomfortable, and suddenly has something quite urgent to busy herself with. At the other side of the store. 

Perfect.

Andrés sneaks into the fitting room and carefully closes the curtain behind himself. 

“Almost done”, Martín mumbles, fiddling with the buttons of his jacket.

Andrés wraps an arm around his waist and stands next to him, meeting his eyes in the mirror. The suit is perfect for him. Dark and tight-fitting. Elegant. There's something really powerful about that image. The two of them, side by side. Matching.

“This one was meant for you, _cariño.”_

Martín laughs and fiddles with his collar.

“This is the third suit you said that about.”

“And you were a vision every time.”

Martín rolls his eyes, as though Andrés is just being silly.

“Stop doing that”, he snaps, his voice hushed but stern. “Don’t you trust my judgement? Look in the mirror. Stand up straight. I know you see it now. You're beautiful. _We’re_ beautiful.”

Martín cannot contain the bashful grin that those words elicit, and Andrés's eyes are drawn to his lips when he smiles. He always had a thing for Martín's mouth. Long before they were together. He noticed it, for many different reasons. 

For artistic purposes, for one. Martín, objectively, has pretty lips. Quite full for a man's, soft and pink. Andrés often stared at his mouth, hoping to catch a glimpse of that chip in his tooth he's painted from every angle by now. Hoping, too, to admire the way his lips stretch so beautifully into a smile. 

The way his lips could stretch, just as beautifully, in a different context.

Yes, Andrés did pay attention to Martín's mouth for artistic purposes. Amongst other things.

Aside from the faint sound of their breathing, it's oddly quiet in the fitting room. They’re both looking at the mirror, at themselves, at each other, in comfortable silence. 

It feels like they’re alone. 

They aren’t, not really. Andrés can still hear footsteps in the distance.

There’s an experience to be had here. Something to try. 

Something to take.

The hand on Martín’s waist pulls him closer, almost distractedly. 

“What would you say if I bought that suit for you?”

Martín smoothes over the lapels of his jacket with the palms of his hands, not looking at him. 

“You were going to buy it anyway, weren’t you? I don’t really have a say.”

He hasn’t caught on yet. How wholesome of him.

When Andrés doesn’t reply, pulls his hand away, Martín finally turns towards him and looks at his face instead of his reflection.

“What?”

Andrés smiles.

“I expected a different reaction from you. You know... it’s a very expensive suit. You couldn’t afford it on your own, could you?”

Martín squints. 

It’s only been a few months since they escaped the Bank of Spain disgustingly rich men. And of course, his share of the gold is the exact same as Andrés’s. Martín _can_ afford this suit. 

The cogs are turning in his head, and Andrés cups his face with both hands, brimming with anticipation. He runs a thumb across Martín’s bottom lip. Just a brush of his fingertip, almost innocent.

“As I said, I’m paying for your suit”, Andrés insists. “And I thought you would be– perhaps, _grateful.”_

There it is. 

The hitch in his breathing, the spark in his eye. 

Before Andrés knows it, Martín is crashing his lips against his and pinning him to the wall, his hands already working their way around the fly of Andrés’s pants. 

“All you had to do was ask”, he mumbles against his mouth, before trailing kisses along Andrés’s jaw. 

“The fact that I had to ask at all is very offensive.”

Martín lowers Andrés’s pants just enough to get his hand inside his underwear, and purrs against his neck when he finds him half hard. 

He wraps a hand around his cock and easily strokes him into a full erection. But then Martín keeps touching him. He doesn’t stop mouthing at Andrés’s neck, with tongue, with teeth. How bold. 

Andrés slaps his hand away from his cock.

“It’s not your hand I want.”

Martín takes his wonderful mouth off his skin and takes steps back a bit. When their eyes meet again, Andrés finds him grinning, raising his eyebrows at him.

“If you want something else from me, maybe you should take it yourself…”

Andrés feels a new pang of arousal at that. Martín knows how to rile him up. 

He lays his hands firmly on Martín’s shoulders, harsher than he needs to be, and doesn’t break eye contact when he pushes him to the floor. Martín even puts up just a little bit of resistance against his hands before he lets himself be manhandled onto his knees, his face in front of Andrés’s crotch. 

Martín doesn't reach for Andrés. He looks up at him, in defiance, in provocation.

His lips are slick from their kiss, and a little bit swollen already. 

His lips are _closed._

How dare he refuse him? Even as a joke. Even to taunt him, when they both know Martín is always hungry for him. 

Andrés grabs his chin possessively, lets his fingers squeeze a little too tightly. 

“Who are you torturing, really?”, Andrés mocks. 

He grabs his cock at the base and presses the head against Martín’s pretty lips, pushes against them.

“You want this as much as I do. Now, open up.”

At last, Martín complies.

He parts his lips, slow and deliberate, and Andrés puts a hand behind his head and pushes inside his hot, wet mouth. He doesn’t need to rock his hips after that. Martín gives him what he needs. He closes his eyes and starts bobbing his head obediently. 

The pressure, the relief, is overwhelming. Made impossibly better by how much of a brat Martín has been. Andrés likes it when he puts up a fight, if only a little. There’s a special kind of gratification that comes with _making him cave_ _._

Not that it takes a lot of effort. 

Andrés doesn’t thrust inside his throat. He doesn’t need to, not when Martín swallows him down on his own. 

He caresses Martín’s hair as he sucks his cock in earnest. His hand is gentle. Demeaning. _Work for it, Martín. Show some appreciation. Deserve your gift._

Martín does. He hollows his cheeks and bobs his head faster, sending vibrations around his member when muffled groans rise from his throat. 

It never gets old, watching him get off on Andrés’s cock in his mouth. He’s probably painfully hard already.

Andrés shifts on his feet. He nudges Martín’s knees on the floor a bit further apart and presses his leg between his thighs. Hard. Of course.

Martín moans again and rocks his hips against him, seeking more contact.

Andrés pulls his leg away.

“Did you really think I’d let you do that? You’ll soil your brand new suit. And it’s not even yours yet.”

Martín looks up at him with wide, desperate eyes. He reaches for Andrés’s legs, palms flat as he slowly rubs his thighs through his pants. It’s nice. Stroking, caressing. His movements are slightly frantic, but he keeps his mouth around his cock, keeps swallowing him down. 

Andrés always found it incredibly hot. Martín not touching himself. Martín touching _him_ instead. 

He likes controlling his pleasure, setting the pace. Deciding when and how Martín comes. _If_ he gets to come. 

And Martín likes that too. Even right now, as he begs with his eyes, pleads with his tongue, for just a bit of friction. Even in that state, he loves it. That it’s forbidden to him. That he has to wait until Andrés grants him that.

Martín is almost clawing at his legs from how much he wants it. His hands are shaking, his hips bucking frantically into nothing. His eagerness, his complete disregard for his own pleasure, make Andrés want to reward him. All in good time.

Andrés slides out of his mouth. He wraps a loose hand around his cock and holds it against Martín’s cheek. He presses it into his skin, using him still. Degrading him. 

His eyes follow the wet trail his cock leaves on Martín’s cheek, slick and shiny with his own spit. 

Martín leans into it, eyes closed, lazily mouthing at the base. As though this is enough. Just to have his mouth on Andrés in some way. And often, it _is_ enough.

“You like that, uh?”, Andrés grunts, keeping his voice low. “I’m not even letting you suck it anymore. But I bet you’re leaking in your pants already.”

Martín just nods and puts his tongue on his member again, absentmindedly lapping at the burning flesh. He looks so shameless like that. He behaves like he’s Andrés’s _thing._

Andrés is almost dizzy with want.

“No. Stand up.”

Martín takes his mouth off him and rises to his feet, frowning. 

“I _know_ you were enjoying that”, he protests.

His voice is already hoarse from taking him so deep in his throat. 

Better yet, he’s _annoyed._ That Andrés interrupted him. 

“Of course, _cielito”_ _,_ Andrés replies, quickly opening Martín’s pants. “But today, you and I are on a tight schedule.”

He leans in and kisses Martín’s neck, just under his ear, as he drags down his pants and underwear. Andrés doesn’t undress him more than that; doesn’t even free Martín’s cock, straining against the fabric. Only his ass is exposed.

“By the time the sales assistant returns, I want to be inside you.”

Martín shivers in his arms and lets Andrés turn him around, guide him with his back to Andrés, both of his hands pressed firmly against the mirror. 

Andrés takes some time to admire him like that. He really likes that position for him. As though Martín were bracing himself, waiting for Andrés’s touch. Whenever he decides to grant it.

Because that’s exactly what it is.

Martín doesn’t speak, doesn’t reach for him. He stays just like that, quietly, patiently. He even leans forwards a little, unprompted, and arches his back. Offering himself to him.

That’s enough waiting. For the both of them.

Andrés rummages through one of the shopping bags from the floor, in the corner of the fitting room, and retrieves a brand new bottle of lubricant. He pops the cap open and pours some on his fingers.

“Lucky we stopped at the pharmacy first, isn’t it?”

Martín laughs. 

“Lucky? This isn’t luck. You planned this.”

Andrés pushes a slick finger inside him. Martín gasps at the intrusion before he clamps his mouth shut. 

“How could I plan this?”, Andrés groans into his ear.

He presses his cock against one of Martín’s buttocks as he starts thrusting his finger. 

“I’m not responsible for the way I reacted to seeing you in that suit. For all I know, _you_ planned this. It’s all on you…”

Andrés is not really grinding against him, but he makes him feel it. How hard he is for him. Martín whimpers, pushing is his ass back, against his cock, against his hand, chasing more, always more.

“Aren’t you a greedy little thing.”

Andrés pours more lube over his entrance and watches him squirm, in pleasure, in anticipation.

He adds another finger and searches for his prostate. And finds it. 

Martín cannot hold back a moan this time, and no matter how gorgeous that sound, Andrés has to make sure he stops.

“Now, let’s not alert the staff just yet”, he purrs, curling his fingers again, and again. “Be a good boy for me and don’t make another sound.” 

Andrés speeds up with his fingers, and the pained look Martín throws him in the mirror is an absolute delight. 

He slowly moves his other hand around Martín’s body to start touching him through his boxers. Not a handjob, not even a caress really. He’s leisurely cupping him, pressing his palm over his member, rubbing up and down. 

Andrés finds the wet spot on the fabric, where Martín has indeed been spurtring precome in his underwear. Untouched, and yet so eager already. 

Martín leans forward to give Andrés better access to his ass, lowering his torso, pressing his forehead against the mirror. Andrés can still see his face in the reflection. 

His eyes clenched shut, his parted lips. 

How hard he tries to be quiet.

“What if someone walked in and saw you like that? Bent over in a fitting room like a cheap whore…”

Hearing those words make it so much harder for him not to moan, Andrés can tell.

“Not cheap”, Martín says through gritted teeth.

Fair point. But he’s visibly struggling to hold back.

The moment Andrés starts really, vigorously stroking Martín’s cock through his underwear, is also when he decides to slide a third finger inside him.

Of course, of _course,_ Martín makes a sound. A gasp, a breathy _‘aaah’._ A lovely thing.

Andrés wastes no time fucking him with three fingers, streching him, opening him.

Once again, he gets him to break.

“Fuck!”, Martín groans, louder than either of them would like.

Andrés holds a hand over his mouth before he makes another sound. The same hand that was rubbing Martín’s dick just a moment ago. Shame...

He traces his index finger, wet with precome, over Martín’s lips, and waits until it’s been licked, tasted, before actually pressing his palm flat against his mouth.

_“Señores? Is everything alright?”_

Martín tenses at the woman's voice, so close to them, just behind the curtain. 

“Yes, of course!”

Andrés speaks loudly, not taking his eyes away from Martín for a second. Not stopping his movements either. 

“Please excuse my husband’s language. He loves the suit. And he’s going to _take it.”_

Andrés curls his fingers inside him. 

_“Anything else I can do for you today?”_

Andrés slowly pulls his fingers out and aligns his cock between Martín’s buttocks, the head pressed to his slick, gaping entrance. 

The woman hasn’t left yet, still waiting for an answer, and Andrés takes his time to respond, savoring the way Martín looks at him in the mirror. His eyes are feverish. Glazed over. And still, he holds his gaze. 

“Actually, yes”, Andrés replies, smiling at Martín in the mirror. “Would you mind setting aside a selection of ties? Blue and green ones. They really bring out his eyes.”

And Andrés pushes into him. 

_“Of course, señor”_ _,_ the woman replies, cheery, upbeat. _“Call me if you need anything else, okay?”_

As the head of his cock is engulfed into Martín’s tight, inviting body, Andrés feels a warm breath against his palm. Wetness. He might hear him mumble something, muffled, inaudible. 

Andrés doesn’t stop until he’s fully inside him, and the pressure around his cock, the welcoming heat of his body, is threatening to make him groan too. 

“I believe we have everything we need right here. Thank you.”

Andrés listens for the saleswoman’s footsteps to get away, to grow distant. 

He starts pulling out of Martín, slowly, his free hand caressing his hip.

And he pushes all the way back in. Hard. 

The mirror gives him such a beautiful image. A contradiction. Their bodies are flush against each other, _connected_ _,_ but with their suits on, with their pants open. Almost clothed. Almost decent. 

Not quite, though. Not with the roll of their hips, the way Andrés moves inside him. 

There’s a sharp pain in his palm when Martín unexpectedly sinks his teeth into his skin.

“Is this how it’s going to be?”, Andrés snaps, taking his hand off Martín’s mouth and grabbing a fistful of his hair instead. 

He tilts his head back, twisting his neck, and glares at him in the mirror. He looks as threatening as he wants to be.

“I was trying to make things _easier for you_ … If you don’t want my help, that’s fine. I can busy my hands with something else. Not a sound, remember?”

He keeps thrusting into him slowly, deep controlled movements, enjoying the pressure, the leisurely pace. Knowing full well this isn't what Martín needs from him. 

A tight fist still around Martín’s hair, Andrés tilts his head forward again and pushes the side of his face against the mirror, the cold surface probably biting into his skin. 

He keeps fucking him from behind. Harder. Picking up the pace. His nails are scraping at his scalp, his other hand still digging into his hip. And Martín stays exactly where he put him. 

He’s not quiet, though. Although he tries.

He’s not moaning or groaning, but his breathing keeps hitching, little gasps here and there. Andrés loves that about him. How utterly incapable he is not to react to him. To his touch, his caresses, gentle and brutal alike. How readily he tilted his head back when he felt Andrés’s hand in his hair, pulling, hurting. 

Andrés starts mouthing at his neck, careful not to bite – they do have a few ties to try on, after this – but he still lets his teeth scrape at the sensitive skin. The muscles of his neck tense under his lips, and Andrés knows Martín is close already. Close to coming, close to breaking. Close to making a deliciously loud noise. 

That’s when Andrés drags down the front of Martín’s boxers too. He frees his throbbing cock from the fabric and wraps a hand around him as he pounds into his ass.

_“Please–”_

A pained sound, but not a loud one. A whisper. Martín is being obedient. Or trying to be, at least. Lovely.

“Please what, _querido?”_

“I can’t”, he whines. “I can’t hold back.”

Andrés smiles against his skin. He looks into the mirror – into Martín’s eyes – and doesn’t stop jerking him off. 

“Maybe it’s for the best if you come now”, he teases. “People are expecting us outside.”

“Not yet, _please”,_ he tries again, and Andrés takes pity on him. 

He lets go of his dick and puts both of his hands back on Martín’s hips. Holding onto him as he takes his pleasure from his ass. 

Andrés can see on Martín’s face that he’s struggling, can see his fingers are twitching and curling against the mirror.

He can feel his pleasure in the way his body clenches around his cock.

Andrés rolls his hips a little more precisely, aiming for Martín’s prostate. It might be a dirty move, but he does want to hear him break again.

“Andrés”, he breathes, his voice cracking. “Fuck, I can’t– I can’t be quiet.”

Andrés licks a wet, salty stripe up his neck before nibbling at his earlobe. Martín trembles against him.

“I know, _cariño,_ I know.It’s okay. Let me help you.”

Andrés slowly wraps a hand around Martín’s throat, loose at first, making sure Martín understands what he’s about to do. And he does. Andrés feels his gulp right under his palm, sees the way he holds his gaze, dazed, pliant. He won’t stop him. This is what he wants. This is what he needs. 

Andrés taps his fingers against Martín’s neck, as though testing the give, before pressing his hand firmly around his throat and squeezing. 

A strangled little sound comes out of Martín’s lips.

And then nothing. 

Andrés is no longer focusing on the thrusts of his hips, so transfixed that he is on Martín’s face. His fluttering lashes, his lips parted in a silent cry. This is how much Martín trusts him. He doesn’t even need to see him. He wants to feel it all, Andrés’s cock inside him, his fingers digging into the flesh of his neck. Keeping all the sounds of his pleasure trapped inside his throat. 

But Andrés knows. 

He feels it, sees it all over him, how deeply Martín loves this. Giving up control. No, not giving it up. Giving it _away._ To him. For Andrés to decide if he can speak, if he can moan, if he can breathe at all. 

In the mirror, Andrés sees the darkness in his own eyes. Desire, pleasure, hunger. The more Martín’s helpless body jerks under his touch, the harder Andrés wants to squeeze.

“Look at me”, he commands, and Martín opens his eyes again. 

There’s something there.

He’s not really looking at Andrés, not really seeing him, and unshed tears are shining in his eyes. But the corners of his lips are twitching, ever so slightly, and Andrés knows that he’d be smiling if he could. 

Struggle, just like bliss, tints his face soft hues of pink, flush his skin, bite his lips red. 

Andrés kisses the back of his neck and slowly lets go of his throat. 

Martín doesn’t even gasp. He inhales deeply, takes a slow, practiced breath. Then a second one. 

By the third breath he takes, Andrés is choking him again. 

He makes a point to squeeze tighter the second time.

And at last, Andrés speeds up his thrusts.

It's eerily quiet in the fitting room. With Andrés's hand around his throat, there are no moans coming from Martín. Only the repetitive sound of skin against skin, of his hips meeting Martín’s ass, like slaps, again and again and again. 

Andrés gets to let go, to hold him tight enough to bruise. To pound into him with abandon, just how Martín likes it. Rough. Unrestrained. How Andrés prefers it too. 

This is just one of the many ways Martín suits him. Completes him. In that regard, he’s a perfect fit. 

Andrés can focus on his own selfish pleasure and still know that Martín is seeing stars from being used. He’s a gift, truly.

When Martín starts shaking in his arms, Andrés lets go of his through. He lets him take a loud, desperate breath before plastering his palm over his mouth again. 

Andrés watches in wonder how Martín arches his back so prettily for him, seeking more, always. His thrusts do not relent, and the pace, the firm palm clasped against his mouth, seem to be enough.

Martín throws his head back, Andrés's hand not leaving his face, and his ass clenches violently around Andrés's cock as he comes, tensed all over, painting white streaks on the mirror in front of him. 

Andrés looks at him like that, so completely wrecked, trembling, panting, and it drives him wild. He pounds into him fast, faster – punishingly fast, with how sensitive Martín must be after his orgasm – but he keeps his palm firmly pressed to his mouth and fucks him, chasing his own release. 

It doesn't take much longer with the look Martín throws him in the mirror, his eyes still damp, his skin still flushed. Andrés sees him, sees himself, watches the two of them together like this, bodies joined in ecstasy, and he reaches his climax, grunting Martín's name, coming inside him. 

Andrés holds onto him, holds him through it, holds him still. 

They stand there for a while, just breathing each other. 

Andrés kisses Martín’s neck, his face, pets his hair. 

When Martín looks at him in the mirror, smiling, Andrés sees himself smiling back.

“Maybe now you’ll let me take you suit-shopping more often.”

Martín laughs. It turns into a little whine as Andrés slowly pulls out of him. 

He grabs a tissue from one of their many bags and meticulously wipes the lubricant off his skin, his fingers, his cock, before tugging himself back into his pants. 

Andrés doesn’t offer his husband the same courtesy. 

He puts Martín's boxers back on and covers him up, his ass, his cock, without cleaning him up. It delights him to leave him like that, to go out into the world all slick and dirty, with lube and leaking out of him.

“Try to make yourself decent, will you?”, Andrés taunts, dropping a kiss on the side of his neck, right under his ear. “And don’t forget to wipe the mirror before you leave.”

Andrés reaches for the curtain and checks himself out in the mirror one last time. He looks presentable. He looks _good_ _._ Above any reproach.

Martín, however, looks positively ravished. Flushed and disheveled. A creature of lust. 

Andrés barely managed to drag his eyes away from his husband when a hushed, raspy voice pipes up behind him.

“Andrés?”

“Hm?”

He meets his eyes in the mirror again.

“Did I earn the ties too?”, Martín asks, the hint of a grin playing on his lips. “Or should I be _grateful_ again when we get home?”

Like he doesn't already know.

Andrés flips him around and dives to his lips. It’s a short kiss but it's deep, sensual, and when Andrés pulls away he leaves Martín whimpering.

With a teasing smile, he finally pulls the curtain and exits the fitting room. 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are very appreciated ♡  
> Thanks for reading!! 
> 
> **@[ _shotgun-cake_](https://shotgun-cake.tumblr.com)** on Tumblr  
>  **@[ _Shotgun_Cake_](https://twitter.com/Shotgun_Cake?s=09)** on Twitter


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